I know I'm really horrible for not keeping up with the schedule. But to apologize, I'll give you guys two chapters this time around. And I'll try my hardest to get stuff done for Sunday, too.

Mycroft was gone. Sholto was showering. You were standing in front of me, and my hands were still shaking, but I had forgotten why.

You sat down at my side. "I asked Greg to pick up an alternate prescription." You said, still cool. "He should be here within a few minutes. Just stay calm until then, alright?"

Oh, of course. I had brought all my medication - my panic pills and even my regular medication - with me to Glasgow. There hadn't been much of it left anyway, so I had figured it wouldn't be too big a deal, but now that the duffel was still on-board a freight train in Blackpool, I was having trouble breathing.

Our conversation with Mycroft about the bombers had made me start thinking of our own safety here in London, of James' safety and Macie's safety, and I had to excuse myself before I worked myself too much. I had no relief this time. But as hard as I tried to reign in my thoughts, the shaking and the shocking pain in my thigh as mangling my concentration and doubling my frustration. You saw it easily and set your hand on my back.

I was still upset with you, but I was at the point where I would rather play pretend and accept your help than deal with the repercussions of a full-blown panic. I twisted at the waist and set my hand against your chest.

"Just relax, John, you're safe here." You whispered, pressing your lips against the corner of my mouth.

I folded my legs underneath me and laid back into the pillows, prodding you to follow me with my fingers at your neck. You let your kisses graze from my lips to my jaw, your hands gently brushing against my sides, nestling at the bottom of my ribs. Your palms were soft, warm. I slowly let my breathing even and my eyes slide shut, the scent of your hair overwhelming the rest of my senses.

You crawled up to lay beside me, wrapping your arms around me and rubbing the tip of my nose with yours.

But with that tiny gesture, my thoughts floated back onto Sholto. Shit. I couldn't push it from my mind, after all; not permanently, at least. I writhed, and you ran your hand along my arm to calm me, but now your touch was like the crack of a whip. I was guilt-heavy, as if I was hiding something from you, and your skin was a tease to the thin veil that kept the truth tucked away. I pressed the heels of my palms against your chest.

"Sherlock," I murmured, my eyes still pinned closed.

"Shh," You cupped my cheek. "It's alright."

"No, Sherlock." I took your wrist in my hand. "I-"

"You don't have to say anything, John."

"We need to talk, Sherlock."

"We can talk after."

You twisted your wrist from me, and I felt you against my waist, moving a bit closer to run your hand along my back. I took a breath, but no - I was breathing broken glass, and if there was any point that was best to tell you, it would be now. Before it became any more painful. Rip off the bandage.

"Sherl-" I pressed myself against you. "Sherlock, please."

"What is it, John?" You softly petted my hair.

"We need to talk," I repeated.

"Now?"

I curled my hands into your shirt. "Yes."

You lifted your head above mine, propping yourself onto your elbow and looking down at me. "Is it about this morning?"

I turned to face upward. "No."

"No?" You thought. "Is it about your health?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

I pushed myself up, ignoring the tightness of chest, until my back was resting against our wooden headboard and I could look easily at you. You, in response, pulled back, sitting with your legs underneath you, your dark hair tossled. My courage and sense of urgency faded quickly with the weight of the air. I could tell that you knew exactly what I was thinking about, but it froze on your tongue.

"About Sholto?" You asked.

I nodded in my eyes, locking them onto yours, watching the gears creak within your skull. You were quiet for just a few moments, but it seemed to stretch endlessly.

"Something happened in Glasgow," You said.

"Well-" I hesitated, sheepishly glancing toward my hands. I didn't know whether to feel frustrated or vulnerable or pathetic or any varied combination of those, and so all three assaulted me at once. "You could say that, I guess."

When I finally had the courage to look back at you, your face was damn near close to murderous. "What did he do to you." You asked, tone low.

I blinked. "Oh, no- No, Sher, he didn't do anything. He didn't do anything."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying to you. He didn't do anything. I swear. Why would you even-"

I watched you. Why did you automatically jump to assuming he had hurt me?

"I have no reservations about keeping Sholto under my thumb if that's what you want." You said, suddenly.

"What?"

"I can, you know, keep an eye on him. If you're uncomfortable with him being here."

"Uncomfortable?" I shirked. "Where are you getting this stuff?"

"I do have eyes."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Bit more hunched than usual, head down, leaving the neck of your jacket open," You listed. "Exposing palms, folding your legs, wearing lighter colors, moving quietly, moving slowly, a bit of a hypersensitivity to sound, acute anxiety, tense muscles, restless hands."

"Okay, what the hell are you going on about."

"All can be interpreted as physical expressions of submission, vulnerability, or fear."

My lips felt dry. "And what does that mean, Sherlock?"

"You're scared of something."

"Am I? Wow, you really are a fucking genius."

You rolled your eyes. "They increased significantly after Major-"

"They increased significantly after Macie Lowdry was fucking abducted by an Afghan terror cell!" I exclaimed. "Don't jump to conclusions just because-"

"Because what, John?" You snapped. "Because as soon as I mention Sholto you look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I've struck an old wound."

I breathed in sharply through my nose and wheezed out, "The only old wounds I have are yours."

Your jaw hung open for a silent second, then clamped shut, the veins popping in your neck. I didn't know why I said that. But my anger flared up, and I balled the sheets into my fists, trembling and flushed.

"Leave me the hell alone," I gritted my teeth. "Just get out. You're not helping."

"Fine."

You climbed off the bed, straightening your shirt and your hair, watching me with a dark glimmer in your eye as I curled back down into the bed. It felt like an ice cube melting down the back of my neck, and I shivered, feeling your glare on me but refusing to return it. Before you left the room, you came up closer to the bed, leaning forward a bit, and spoke quietly.

"I'll trust your judgment for now, because I haven't found evidence not to. But your illness has made you vulnerable, don't forget that. I have no argument with Sholto, and I'm grateful that he was able to get you back here. But he ever lays a hand on you, I will kill him."

You strode from the room, and my entire body went numb.

I chose not to stay alone for too long. I started feeling better after Greg brought me more panic pills, and having them with me helped me stir myself up enough to move. The sun was setting, and although I was still exhausted, I felt like it wasn't appropriate to fall asleep so early. Sholto was still awake, working quietly in the other room, and you had left almost an hour ago. I didn't really want James to have to be by himself, either. So I got up, washed my face, changed into fresh clothes, and joined him.

The mess was out of sight until I turned the corner from the kitchen into the sitting room. Your usual wall was covered in maps, post-it notes, and glossy photographs of people I didn't recognize, but rather than you standing investigating it, it was Sholto. At his feet were more maps and pages filled with writing, spread out in a wave around him, dotted with pens, pencils, and thick notebooks. Geography guides, military strategy textbooks, modern history leaflets, and manila folders with distinct red stamping on the front littered the carpet and the hardwood, scattered but still in a relative order.

He glanced at me when he noticed the shadow in the doorway. "I'm sorry about the mess."

"What are you doing?" I asked, stepping inside.

"Mapping." He replied. "Sherlock got all this for me."

I nodded, looking at it all as I sank into my armchair. It was monstrous, and a bit gave the impression of progress, which I was very glad for. "Mapping what, exactly?"

"Our routes, and Macie's routes, by what I can remember." He uncapped a brilliant red Sharpie pen and marked onto one of the maps taped to the wall. "For now I've lost the pages I wrote from Glasgow, but I can still remember most of it, and there's still more coming back."

"Good, that's great."

"I hope so." He turned and eased himself down onto the sofa, letting his eyes rest on me again. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine enough," I answered.

"Is your medicine helping?"

"A bit, yes."

He nodded, leaning back. He took up one of the geographies and only let his gaze waver to look down and flip through a few pages. "Lestrade said hello."

"Did he?" I shifted. "And how was that?"

"It was alright. He seemed like a level-headed sort of man. Although mostly he was just trying to distract from the fact that Holmes was baring his hypothetical teeth louder than an estranged lioness."

I pursed my lips. "I'm sorry about him."

He shrugged his head back and forth. "Did you tell him, then?"

My silence was my reply, and he looked back up at me.

"John?"

"It isn't the right time yet," I said quickly, wringing my wrists over my knees. "He was already worked up."

"You were worked up."

"We were both worked up."

"The longer you wait, the more worked up he'll be."

"I don't really see why he has to know in the first place."

James blinked. "He is your partner."

"That doesn't mean I have to share everything about my history."

"It sounds to me like you're trying to hide it."

"I'm not trying to hide it." I defended, turning my head away. "I just-" I paused, laughing a little through my nose. "What are the odds I would be getting a rake across the knuckles about communication from you, of all people."

"What are you implying?"

I looked at him long and hard. "You never exactly reacted well to communication."

He looked miffed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, that's right." I said, letting my voice get a bit softer. "You lost it."

"Lost what?"

"The night."

He studied me, and I studied him.

"What night?" He asked, quietly.

"The one I was telling you about, with Eddie and Gale, the communications corpsman." I answered. "I dressed your arm in the infirmary, but you insisted I dressed it in your dorm room."

"Oh, that. But I remember-" You hesitated, furrowing your brow. "I remember I hit you."

"Yes."

"You fell and busted your head on a cot rim."

"Yes, yes."

"What am I missing?"

"That's really all you remember?"

"What am I missing, John?"

My features bent sadly, shoulders drooping into the back of the chair. "We made up," I said, my voice dropping almost to a whisper. "I was angry, we were both angry. I tried to communicate, but not very well, and you tried to communicate, but also not very well. But eventually we met in the middle, somehow. I told you I was worried about you. You told me you knew."

His eyes got a little bigger, but I could tell it was coming back.

"That was when we went back to the barracks," He recounted.

I nodded.

"I guess the first part was more significant to me than the details," James admitted.

"Maybe."

"Although that sounds insensitive."

"No, it's alright."

"I don't think the communication ended too badly that time, though."

I laughed. "Maybe not for you, I got myself a busted lip and a bashed-up head."

But Sholto wasn't even listening. His eyes were glazed over, wide. At first I was afraid he was having some sort of complex panic attack, he was so still and silent. But then he turned, almost jerking, grabbing toward the pile of maps you had left for him. "Do you have a map of London?"

"Uh, somewhere, I'm sure." I braced myself to push to my feet. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Christ, why didn't I think of it before," He muttered, digging through the pile.

"Think of what?"

"Macie had a friend," He said. "A friend from London. Lower London. You told me you didn't know why Jandi would come to London."

"Yeah, we had no idea," I nodded. "Do you think-"

"He could have very well been trying to contact her. But what was her name." He pulled open a map. "Do you have a phone book?"

"Of course, I'll get it for you." I started up, limping toward your shelves.

"Thank-you. I only remember her from one time. It was right after what you were talking about. Macie was working graveyard, doing the paperwork for the lost soldiers and KIAs. She was talking about London. Dammit, I should've known."

I handed him the thick book. "Should've known what?"

"Laura. Ovwell? No. Orwell?" He flipped through quickly, his hands firmly grasping either side, driving up the scent of paper and ink. "Ovleen, that was it. She's a witch, works in lower London, has some kind of psychic shop or something. Macie met her in school. Wrote to her all the time. She said that she could always count on her to take care of her in a fix. Christ, there she is."

He pointed at an entry, and I squinted my eyes to read it. Priestess Luna Ovleen.

"Jandi knew about her. Jandi had met her. Jandi would have gone to her first. He came to London to find Ovleen." He stated, standing up.

"Then why wouldn't he mention her?" I asked. "Why would he still come to us?"

"I don't know, but something's definitely wrong. Maybe something happened to her? Maybe she knows something we don't."

"Well, then, we have to find her," I said.

"Right now," He nodded.

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